Posted in Picture, Writing

30 is the New Awesome

I have noticed that my posts have been a bit negative recently (I had a particularly bad period this month.  You’re welcome).  I have decided to balance this out by focussing on things that I actually find enjoyable and I’m going to start with my thoughts on being 30.  Despite my occasional moans, I love being 30 and hope that this article will instil a little less dread in those who are nearing my age and a new, more positive perspective for those who are already there.  For the 21 year olds who may be reading this, you can take your snug-fitting vaginas and pert tits and fuck off.  No one is interested in anything you have to say.
 
The decision to accept my age as a positive thing occurred the other month after buying my first ever anti-wrinkle cream.  I currently have three wrinkles and since it took me 30 years to gain three wrinkles I thought that by the time I am 60 I will have six wrinkles.  That is how it works right?  Well, I don’t want six wrinkles so I went to Boots and bought some wrinkle-prevention cream.  As I was smearing it onto my face, the Bryan Adams classic ‘Summer of ’69’ came on PlanetRock Radio (Sky channel 0110 – get involved) and it made me come over all reflective.
 
There are many down sides to being in your thirties and my teenage years were without a doubt the best days of my life – almost too much fun – but then I think, ‘would I go back there if I could?’ –  No fucking chance.  Being young involves far too much giving-a-shit for very little reward.  High School for me was the Care capital of the Universe.  Literally everything had to be a drama and it usually involved copious amounts of tears, alcohol, cigarettes or boys.
 
This is exactly what he looked like. He did have an axe.

Take my first attempt at losing my virginity, for instance.  I was living in Malta at the time and it happened at my then boyfriend’s house when his parents were out for the afternoon.  We were in the bedroom clumsily trying to figure out what the hell we were supposed to do to get rid of the terrible burden that is a teenager’s virginity when, about an hour in (and nowhere near actually having sex), his Grandad decided to come round for a visit.  ‘Sweet of him’, I hear you say – yes well his Grandad was in the circus; he could inflate hot water bottles with his lungs, rip the Yellow Pages in half with his bare hands and there were pictures hanging above the fireplace of him pulling an Air Malta plane using only his 3 foot high, hairy body and a chest-harness.  He also didn’t speak any English, which for some reason made him seem more scary to me.

 
Needless to say I was pretty naked and very unprepared for this impromptu visit.  We instantly panicked and, as I heard his Grandad coming towards the bedroom, my boyfriend tried to shove me into the 3cm-wide space under his bed.  This was clearly not working so he picked me up, threw my clothes at me (a pair of denim dungarees, a la TLC, no less – I miss dungarees, when are they gonna come back in fashion?) and, literally the second before his grandad came in the room, jammed me into his wardrobe.  The wardrobe door was slatted so I could see his muscly little circus feet wandering around the bedroom and for a few minutes it was touch and go as to whether or not I would successfully prevent myself from involuntarily shitting the pants I was not wearing.  Malta is a Roman Catholic country so you don’t often find naked teenagers in wardrobes and when you do, it is not considered the high-five moment it is in this country.
 
He eventually left the room and, after quickly getting dressed, I spent the next 15 minutes trying to get out of the house without him seeing me.  It was very James Bond and involved climbing extremely high walls in my socks, hiding behind plants and a lot of SAS hand signals.  I eventually emerged out into the street victorious, only for his grandad to drive past in his van beeping his novelty horn and waving at me.  He knew I was in there the whole time, the little bearded bastard. 
 
That is just one scenario out of a similar hundred that happened to me in my youth.  I spent these years permanently exhausted from either school work, numerous attempts at losing my virginity (I would like to stress that they were all with the same guy – I was generous with my time but I was by no means a slut), boarding school drama, acne/frizzy hair worries, clubbing or generally trying to fight the system.  Most of it seemed enjoyable at the time, but looking back now – absolute arsed!
 
Being in my thirties could not be further from all that hassle. These days it is very rare that I will care about anything and when I do, I don’t really care that much.  I suppose I’ve learned that no amount of stressing changes the fact that sometimes in life you just have to do things that you don’t want to do.  I used to be a bit of a free-loving, tree-hugging, animal-bumming hippy until I got a mortgage.  I now work on an oil rig raping mother earth to within an inch of her life every day so I don’t starve to death.  It’s not ideal but it’s also not as simple to save the world as you think it is when you’re young, so I just close my eyes and get on with it.  Anyway, when you hurry up and get the shit stuff out of the way, it means that there is more time for the fun stuff, see?
I can't seem to find this on their website. It must be limited edition.

 

I say ‘fun stuff’ but I’m not entirely sure that as you get older the things you consider fun are technically ‘fun’.  Take spending money for example.  Being young meant being skint and yet there were so many awesome things I could have bought if my pockets had contained more than the bus fare home and a broken cigarette.  Now that I do have the disposable income, what do I do with it?  I spend it all on scented fucking candles and bottles of Febreeze.  I have become obsessed.  A Yankee Candle shop opened in town recently and I instantly touched myself inappropriately.

Another change I have noticed is the conversations I have with taxi drivers.  I used to only ever talk to them about two things: Why I was hungover or how much he would charge if I was to hypothetically throw up all over the back seat.  Since turning 30, I still only ever talk to them about two things but now it is either about the bypass and how ridiculous it is that we still don’t have one, or it is to discuss my feelings about the plans for Donald Trump’s golf course and the effect it will have on the local community – I was against it until I found out Tiger Woods was a dirty slut, now I say “build the fucking golf course and get his hot little black ass as close to my house as possible”.  There are plenty of places for badgers to live, but how often will I get the chance to exploit the personality flaws of Tiger Woods in Aberdeen?  Exactly.

The concept of mail has also started to morph into an entirely new creature in our household.  I received a letter the other day asking if I wanted to be on the Aberdeen Citizens Panel, and I THOUGHT ABOUT IT.  I actually, seriously considered it.  They said I could voice my concerns.  I have concerns!!  I also contemplated joining the postcode lottery and almost filled up those plastic bags for donating your old clothes to charity.  This morning I received one of those letters from Cancer Research with a pen enclosed asking me for some money.  Normally I would throw the letter in the bin and think “Boost! Free pen!” but not today.  Today I thought “That reminds me, I must start thinking about donating to some sort of charity”.  I then threw the pen away because when I tried to use it I couldn’t get the image of bald children out of my head.  Get a grip!

It’s not just the receiving of mail that is becoming an issue, I have also started sending more.  In the past three months I have written four complaint letters, one to a magazine, one to iTunes, one to my neighbour and one to my postman asking him to stop being such a cunt and actually put my mail through my letter box as opposed to leaving it outside on the fucking pavement.

Hmm, maybe I do care about things after all.  I take it all back – I think when you reach 30 it’s not that you stop caring, it’s just that you stop caring about yourself.  I would go so far as to say that when it comes to me, this is pretty much it, so as time goes on I worry less about what I say, what I look like or what people might think of me.  Instead it is other people I worry about: my friends and family, Steve Jobs (he has pancreatic cancer and cannot, I repeat, cannot die before my upgrade is due in August.  I don’t like the iphone 4 so he needs to get designing), the postman, the Middle East, my neighbour and the shambles that is today’s society.  I’ve found that it is much easier (and way more fun) to judge other people rather than yourself so, as much as I loved them, you can poke your twenties.  Anyway, I’m only at the very beginning of my thirties so if you squint really hard whilst dangerously drunk you could argue that, on the scale of things, I am still just a baby.

I will leave you now with a few things I have said recently which have placed me firmly in the bony, arthritic grip of old age.

-“You know, I don’t know enough about birds.”
-“I’m not keen on those new-builds.  I’d rather have a house with a bit more character.”
-“Well Billy, I’m gonna need new hiking boots if we are going to start climbing Munros.”
-“Oh, but if we go to Sainsbury’s now it’ll mean that I’ll miss Escape to the Country! It’s my all-time favourite programme you fascist!”
-“Okay then, sign me up for the Baker Hughes 10k run.”
-“Granted those shoes are nice, but would you class them as comfortable? Because I’m not really sure I would.”
-“I really want to see The King’s Speech.”

Sshhh, it’s all gonna be okay……..

At least I can look forward to fisting Billy in our retirement.
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Posted in Video

Skyrim – Bethesda Have Given Us a Shit Video!

In the immortal words of our Lord, Justin Timberlake:
“Jizz. In my pants”.

I know, the entire video consists of looking at a wall whilst listening to a very impressive – and in no way overdramatic voiceover – but I am still jizzing entirely into my pants. Despite the fact that the title sounds a little bit like gay aeroplane cloud sex, I nominate Skyrim as my new best friend. I just wish I didn’t have to wait until November to meet him.

Posted in Picture, Video, Writing

Lady Gaga Touched Me and Now I Have Aids

Things I hate and why:
Disease-ridden, sausage-smuggling fucktard – Lady Gaga.

Because:

-She looks (and I’m pretty sure smells) like she’s been dead for over a week. Someone needs to spray her with Febreeze. The advert says that it is for awkward objects that are difficult to wash, and I don’t think I’ve seen anything more awkward than Lady Gaga – she dances like a drunk, Downs Syndrome baby giraffe.

-She is so emaciated that her teeth are constantly exposed because she doesn’t have enough skin to stretch over them. There is literally nothing that annoys me more than people whose faces are so malformed that they are physically incapable of closing their mouths so they just walk around all day with a stupid tooth face.

-She uses the word ‘paw’ instead of ‘hand’ (e.g. “Put your paws in the air”, a real sentence that she really said). She clearly does not know the difference between paws and hands so I propose that we put her in that little meat dress she wore to highlight gay rights (still don’t see the connection) and kick her into the lion enclosure of the nearest zoo. I’m pretty sure she will die knowing exactly what a paw is and that can only be progress.

-Her boyfriend is the most smoking hot thing I’ve ever seen. If I ever got my hands on him he’d wish he was never born. I’d ruin him.

But there is no need for me to bore you with written explanations as to why she is such a mong-chote when she does such a wonderful job of demonstrating it herself in this ear-bleeding, eye-melting, fan-made tribute video:

 You know who was also ‘just being himself’?  Hitler.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Things I love and why:
Hilarious children’s programme and recipient of the British Comedy Award for Best Sketch Show – Horrible Histories.

Because:

And:

 

Here’s the problem though. If Lady Gaga’s new video is anything to go by, turns out that she is actually the Grim Reaper from Stupid Deaths, one of my favourite sketches in Horrible Histories, and I am not happy about it.

Look!

Note the stupid tooth face.

Is nothing mine, Lady Gaga?  Could you not just let me have that?  It’s CBBC for fuck’s sake, if I can’t get away from your Hepatitis spores there then where can I go?  There really is only one place pure and fragrant enough to protect me from the Gaga’s omnipresent sticky residue – Kate Middleton’s bosom.  I wonder if she will let me nestle in there when I go to her wedding/get drunk in a London park next month…….Hold me Kate, hold me!

Posted in Picture, Writing

Lisa’s Pieces – Test(icle) Tube

Do you ever get the feeling that your journey to work just isn’t quite testicley enough?  Lisa doesn’t.

If this isn't an invitation to play Cock-or-Ball then I don't know what is. Shotgun ball!

Observations:

– This guy knows exactly what he is doing.  He has even moved his tie ever so slightly to the side to ensure that Lisa gets a clear, uninterrupted view of his glory globes*.  

– The rapist glasses are not helping him.  I wouldn’t say that they are particularly harming him either but I could take them or leave them to be honest. 

– He appears to be sitting in a seat in which pregnant and disabled people get priority.  No one who is capable of opening their legs that wide qualifies as disabled therefore he must be pregnant.  Maybe that isn’t his scrote-sack after all and it is actually the elbow of a baby he is in the middle of giving birth to.  Not sure I would be capable of doing a Sudoku while birthing though.  I think this one is going to have to remain a mystery.

N.B.  That is NOT Lisa’s shoe in the corner of the photo, anyone in my family that chose to wear that shoe would be instantly disowned.  That is the shoe of either an Italian tourist or a very shit British person with an even shitter hobby: Rambling, climbing (not the super-sexy, shirtless kind), orienteering, rowing, archery, drinking ale and laughing far too loudly whilst discussing the latest rugby scores and the heart-wrenching human deprivation they witnessed out of the window of their uncle’s chauffeur driven Mercedes on their “gap-year” to “one of our third world countries”.  I am not a fan of that shoe.

*I’m pretty sure I just invented the term ‘Glory Globes’ and, although not ground-breakingly amusing, I would appreciate credit when and if you choose to use it.  Thanks.

Also – I’ve made a facebook page for this blog, all you need to do is click the link under my picture and we will be friends for life. I would love that! We could maybe go fishing together sometime? I’ll make sandwiches? 🙂

Posted in Picture, Writing

Greeting Cards – Life’s Little ‘Fuck You’

The Eighties were generally good to the Dingwalls. Our days were filled with Eurythmics, Garbage Pail Kids sticker collections, meals made entirely in the deep-fat fryer, beanbags, ‘Going Live’ on a Saturday morning and chasing the neighbour’s kid around the park with some dog shit on the end of a stick (or ‘shitty-stick’ to give it its official title – a rewarding game that I still sometimes play with Billy in Seaton Park if I’m feeling particularly nostalgic). This constant flow of contentment was only ever broken by three things:

1. My mum revealing her latest home-made, pink, satin Roman curtain/blind abomination.
2. Tupperware parties.
3. The writing out of Christmas cards.

Today I will be focussing on the latter. My mum really hated writing out Christmas cards. I remember she had one of those plastic keyboard address books where you press the letter you need and it opens unnecessarily violently to the relevant page. She would just sit and angrily press the keys until she got the addresses she needed, a task made harder by the fact that she filed people like Mr & Mrs Baxter under ‘F’ because Mr Baxter was a farmer.  As my sister and I got older, she would try to enlist our help as ‘Envelope Writers’ – enticing us with such rewards as corned-beef hash or a glass of Raspberry Cremola Foam.  Despite the E-number heavy incentive, I didn’t like being the Envelope Writer and as I headed toward adulthood this developed into a full-blown aversion to greeting cards in general.

Nowadays, when the thought crosses my mind to maybe write out some Christmas cards, I am instantly put off by the sheer scale of the project:

– I don’t have anyone’s address, so the first task would be to email/text everyone I know and try to obtain their address.

– I don’t have an address book to put these addresses into, so before I start contacting people I should really go into town and buy an address book from WH Smith.

– I don’t want a boring black leather address book.  I want an address book that says “Look at me! I’m fun! But not irresponsible”.  I also wouldn’t mind one that has all the international time zones, a world map and some first aid pointers.  WH Smith simply does not have an address book that caters to all my needs.

– I need to go and buy some cards now.  I don’t really like any of the ones I’m seeing.  Do I go for the scenic snow-covered churchyard ones, the ones with a picture of Santa doing a shit down someone’s chimney or the ice-skating penguin ones?  This is hard.

– I need to buy some stamps.  How much are you for stamps nowadays?  Turns out I would have to re-mortgage my flat to buy enough stamps to cover the amount of Christmas cards I would like to send.  I’m going to have to cut people out.

– Who do I cut out?  The people I don’t really like?  But then they will know I don’t really like them.  People who aren’t related to me?  But I like people who aren’t related to me.  Well, I can’t send one to Person A and not Person B because they are neighbours and they might start talking about Christmas cards and realise that I deliberately cut out Person B.  Oh God…….what the hell am I going to do?

– I know what I’m going to do,  I’m not going to send any Christmas cards.

And that is what I do.  There have been a couple of times at family parties when Billy’s aunt has – in my favourite form of humour: Drunken sarcasm – said “Oh, thanks for my Christmas card Jillian, I sent you one but it’s okay, I’m not offended that you didn’t send me one back”.  She is BILLY’S aunt, not my aunt.  Why is it my responsibility to send her a Christmas card?  If she wants one then she needs to get all up in Billy’s face with her threatening greeting card hostility.  People are sometimes shocked that I don’t even send them to my immediate family but they know the script, they know.  If I sent a Christmas card to my sister she would instantly pick up the phone and say, “Um, why the fuck have you sent me a Christmas card?  Do you have terminal cancer?  Don’t tell me I’m going to have to buy an address book, put your address in it and buy a Christmas card and a stamp.  You better have terminal cancer”. 

Birthday cards are an entirely different matter, I am in favour of them – mostly because you just have to buy one at a time and you usually give it to them in person instead of posting it.  Depending on my mood I can sometimes make a very big effort, like this card that I sent to my sister last year:

Lisa and I have to write the word 'penis' at least once on our birthday cards to each other. A tradition that dates back to 2001 when she wrote 'penis' about fifty times on my flight tickets without telling me. I proceeded to present them at the check-in desk like some sort of sex-crazed, cock-monster.

Or completely forget about it until the last minute and improvise with whatever I can find in the man-drawer, like this one that I gave to my friend and all-round La Lombarda hero, Michael, the other week:

 

The problem I have with birthday cards is therefore not that I don’t like them, it’s that I am completely incapable of remembering anyone’s birthday.   I now rely entirely on facebook to inform me of my friend’s birthdays, by which time it is far too late to do anything about it.  So instead I write “Happy Birthday” on their wall, something I hate doing because, let’s be honest, it is a shit effort and I’m sure the last thing someone wants on their special day is to read a list consisting of three hundred variations of the words “Happy Birthday”.

As a direct result of my inability to get my act together and participate in the thoughtful tradition of greeting card sending, I now only ever receive cards consistently from two people: Billy’s parents and another all-round hero of mine, my friend Alison.  No matter how rarely I remember to return the gesture, they still never fail to send me a card every birthday and Christmas and for this I am truly grateful.  It does actually feel nice to get a card through your door and I salute them for having the motivation to keep doing it despite the fact that – in true Dingwall fashion – they might never get one back.